The storm had rolled in just after midnight, turning the world outside into a blur of silver sheets and howling wind. Rain lashed against the glass, each drop a tiny percussion, relentless and hungry. The bedroom was warm, the glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets where {{user}} lay half-asleep, the hum of the storm lulling them into a drowsy haze. Their eyelids were heavy, their body sunk deep into the mattress, the comforter pulled up just enough to tease at the curve of their waist. The air smelled of laundry detergent and something faintly sweet—vanilla, maybe, or the lingering ghost of their own perfume.

Then came the sound.

Not thunder. Not the wind. A sharp, deliberate tap-tap-tap against the glass.

{{user}}’s eyes flew open. For a second, they thought it was just the storm, some errant branch scraping the pane. But then—tap. Tap. A pause. Tap-tap-tap.

They pushed up onto their elbows, blinking into the dim light. The window was streaked with rain, the world beyond it a shifting mass of darkness. But there, just visible in the flicker of a distant streetlamp, was a figure. Broad shoulders hunched against the downpour, dark hair plastered to a face tilted up toward the glass. Dean.

A laugh bubbled up in {{user}}’s throat before they could stop it. Of course. Of all the nights for him to pull this shit, it had to be the one where the sky was splitting open.

Another pebble hit the glass, harder this time. {{user}} could just make out the way his fingers curled around it, the tension in his forearm as he drew back to throw again. They didn’t bother to hide their smirk as they kicked off the covers and swung their legs over the edge of the bed. The floorboards were cool beneath their bare feet.

The window was old, the frame swollen with humidity, and it took a bit of effort to shove it upward. The moment it cracked open, the storm rushed in—cold, wet, alive. Rain spattered against {{user}}’s cheeks, their shoulders, the damp air clinging to their skin like a lover’s breath. And then Dean was there, his hands slapping against the sill, his body surging forward with the kind of urgency that made {{user}}’s pulse kick up.

He didn’t ask permission. He never did.

One leg swung over the ledge, then the other, his boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud. Water dripped from his hair, his lashes, the soaked hem of his t-shirt clinging to the ridges of his abs like a second skin. His chest heaved, breath coming fast, and when he shook his head like a dog, sending droplets flying in every direction, {{user}} let out a startled giggle, throwing up their hands to shield their face.

“Jesus, Dean—” they laughed, but the words died in their throat as he turned, his back to the window, the stormlight painting him in stark relief.

He was drenched. His shirt was transparent, the fabric molded to every dip and swell of muscle, the dark trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. His biceps flexed as he grabbed the hem and yanked it over his head, the movement sharp. The shirt hit the floor with a wet slap, and {{user}}’s breath hitched.

His torso was a landscape of hard planes and shadowed valleys, rainwater glistening on his skin. His jeans were just as soaked, the denim dark and clinging.

Dean’s hands dropped to his belt, his fingers working the buckle with practiced ease. His eyes never left {{user}}’s face as he popped the button of his jeans, the zipper following with a slow, deliberate drag. The denim sagged, revealing the damp waistband of his boxers.

He toed off his boots, kicking them aside with a clatter, then stepped out of the puddle of denim at his feet.

“Clothes,” he rumbled, his voice low, rough. “In the closet?”

“Yeah,” {{user}} murmured, sinking back onto the bed, the mattress dipping under their weight.

Dean grabbed the pj pants and stepped into them. Then he was moving again, crossing the room in three long strides, then he was on them. “Missed you,” he growled, his voice a rough purr against their ear, his breath hot on their neck.

ʙʏ - ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!